The Assistants

by Camille Perri

  Emily was right. It was like, who even remembered anymore what we took from Titan? But I remembered. And somehow seeing how all this was turning out—how at times I’d catch myself being genuinely excited and hopeful and optimistic about my future, and then remember—it was making me realize the person I could have become if only I hadn’t . . .

  . . . what?

  If only I hadn’t stolen? Broken? Made a bad choice? Made a dozen bad choices? But we’d gotten away with it, and I have to admit that I was really fucking happy about that.

  23

  ARRIVING AT WORK on Monday morning, I was struck by how similar it felt to my first day at Titan. The tingling in my belly, the good nerves mingling with bad, the way I was thinking as I rode the escalator up to the elevator bank, Do I have time to run and grab a bagel at the café?

  But unlike my first day, today there were people greeting me and smiling at me. Both in front of and behind me on the escalator there were girls craning their necks to catch my eye and wave. On the escalator parallel to mine, Gwendolyn Clark, a producer who was a known starfucker, paused midsentence in her conversation with one of Titan’s most celebrated newscasters to acknowledge me. I’m not gonna lie, it felt pretty good, because attention, even the whorish kind, can seriously boost one’s endorphins.

  In the elevator—elevator B—there were women who I was pretty sure had been instructed by the central kiosk to proceed to elevator A or C but filed into mine anyway. I didn’t even know what to do with all these women batting their extra-long eyelashes at me. Should I be aloof and check my phone? Pretend to look for something in my bag? And then it hit me: This was why people walked around wearing giant headphones all the time. Because when you’re popular, it’s the easiest way to ignore everyone who wants you to notice them. It wasn’t about the music at all, was it?

  When I reached the fortieth floor, it was pretty much business as usual, but Robert wasn’t in yet. Which meant I could have totally run to the café for a bagel after all.

  I settled in at my desk, logged on to everything I had to log on to, checked the phone messages, and then got to the real business of the day: opening the Assistance page and allocating the day’s checks to our five lucky winners.

  When Robert walked up behind me, he didn’t make a sound.

  “Tina.”

  I jumped an inch from my chair.

  “Robert!” I shouted.

  “What’s that you’re looking at?”

  “Nothing.” I X’d out every window on my screen like a game of computer Whack-A-Mole.

  Robert took off his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. “Will you come into my office, please?”

  I reached for my pen and notepad and didn’t feel the least bit nervous.

  For months now, every time Robert had asked to speak to me I’d nearly lost control of my bowels. But not this time. This time I gave Robert the usual three-step head start, watched the carpet into his office, and closed the door behind me, thinking the whole time about getting back to my desk to send out those checks.

  “Please sit,” he said.

  I sat, anticipating great praise. Maybe a good ol’ boy’s smack on the back for a job well done. Perhaps a Man oh man, your site took off like a greased sow. Or a You’re as smart as a hooty owl, aren’t you?

  Instead he leaned on his elbows with his hands enfolded in front of him. “Is there anything you feel you need to say to me?” he asked.

  I was a master at deciphering Robert’s tone, but whatever it was I was hearing now was entirely new. It didn’t strike me as the falling timbre of disappointment. More the enfeebling tonic of sadness.

  “No,” I said.

  We sat staring at each other for a moment. From the outside, any stranger could have mistaken us for lovers, or, more appropriately, father and daughter when the daughter has done something wrong, but she isn’t sure which wrong thing the father knows about.

  What did he want from me? Did I do something at the launch party that rubbed him the wrong way? Robert could be so impossible when it came to how much he relied on my knowing what he was thinking without his having to tell me.

  Fine. I would have to be the one to speak first.

  “Have I done something to upset you?” I asked.

  He broke eye contact then, which I didn’t know what to make of. Breaking eye contact was something Robert did not do. Ever.

  He looked down at his desk, and then at his shoes, which had remained securely on the floor. When he returned his eyes to me, he said, “It’s been great working with you, Tina.”

  I said, “What?”

  “Really. I’m going to miss you.”

  “Wait. You’re firing me?”

  “No, no,” he said. “But you can take a few minutes to clear out your desk and all that.” He tossed an envelope at me. “This is a generous severance package. It’ll keep you afloat for a while.”

  So he wasn’t firing me, but he was?

  His words, the envelope, the room, all swirled around me in slow motion. I was afraid if I tried to talk it would come out sounding like stroke-speak, all loose lipped and tongue addled.

  “Don’t look so unhappy,” he said. “I’m kicking you out of the nest because I know you’ll never leave on your own. And it’s time.” He stood up and extended his hand for a firm shake. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now go on.”

  Everything was spinning.

  Had I been caught or hadn’t I? I honestly wasn’t sure.

  Lurking at my desk were two jar-headed Titan security guards. Robert gave them a nod and I knew that was my cue to get up and leave quietly and immediately, with my dignity intact. They had already placed an empty cardboard box on my chair to speed up the process. These guys knew what they were doing.

  I scanned the office as I collected my belongings. Dillinger had his headphones hanging sideways off his head and his mouth was a speechless O. All the guys on the floor appeared equally flabbergasted. Nobody made a sound.

  One security guard flanked me on either side to escort me into the elevator and down to the lobby. “Titan policy,” they told me. “Legal reasons.”

  “I don’t have a gun,” I joked.

  They didn’t laugh.

  The elevator dropped and its doors slid open to a small crowd of inquisitive eyes. I clutched my cardboard box of stuff to my chest—an image that would hit Twitter and the like within minutes—and watched the textured floor tile, step by step, to the top of the escalator.

  It was incredible how quickly word had spread, via IM most likely, from a few nosy, gossip-hungry coworkers on my floor (Jason Dillinger, I’m looking at you) to all corners of the Titan building.

  I could hear Kevin pleading with my security guards. “What’s going on here?” he asked, louder each time he repeated it. “Roberto,” he said. “Sal. What’s up?”

  A few cell-phone cameras documented it all. One followed me in a diagonal parallel down the opposite escalator.

  Another cluster of onlookers lingered around the front doors. I searched for Emily or Ginger, or Wendi or Lily—or even Margie Fischer—but there was no sign of any of them.

  Lobby security dispersed the boldest looky-loos blocking my exit and escorted me out of the building, to the curb, where a black sedan waited with its door ajar.

  Roberto and Sal guided me into the backseat, careful not to bump my head, and shut the door behind me. Those who made it out to the sidewalk watched me get driven away through their LCD screens.

  “I’m going to Williamsburg,” I said to the driver.

  He nodded. “I know where you’re going.”

  —

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER I was inside my apartment, sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my cardboard box of stuff, which wasn’t much stuff at all really. My cell phone was blowing up, but I was too catatonic to answer. Kevin, Ginge
r, Wendi, Lily—they all left voice mails I didn’t bother to listen to.

  Since the day I deposited that first check, I’d created dozens of different renditions of what it would look and feel like for Robert to sit me down and fire me. Sometimes the police were involved. Sometimes Glen Wiles was involved. Usually I cried. A few times Robert cried. But things never turn out how you picture them, do they? I never imagined it would end so vaguely.

  Or had it still not ended? Was there more to come? What if this was only the beginning of the end, or in the way of a too-long Scorsese film, only the end of the beginning?

  My front door swung open then, and Emily stormed in looking like she had an approximate blood pressure of heart attack.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “What the hell do you think?” She tossed her purse into the bedroom.

  Emily wasn’t carrying a cardboard box, which indicated to me that she, at least, hadn’t also been fired. She sat down across from me at the kitchen table, too upset to even think of first fixing herself a drink.

  “What happened?” she asked. “What did Robert say to you?”

  I felt my cheeks go hot. “He said he was letting me go because he knew I would never quit on my own.”

  “He didn’t mention anything about . . .”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well don’t let that trick you into a false sense of security. You’re likely to be wearing an orange jumpsuit by next week.”

  “But he gave me a severance package,” I said. “Would he have done that if he—”

  “Fontana, if you want to pull that cardboard Just Fired! box over your head and leave it there, be my guest. But we’re caught. There’s no other explanation.”

  Emily unlatched her necklace, unclasped her bracelet, and slid off her rings. “You know I hate having to get real with you this way,” she said, speaking to me in her lower-class accent now. “But we’ve got to figure out our next move before it’s too late. You get me?”

  I nodded.

  “So the only remaining question,” she said, “is what do you think of Mexico?”

  I stared at the pile of gold and jewels on the table. “Are you asking me to Thelma and Louise it with you?”

  “The alternate version, where the car lands safely over the border?” Emily said. “Yes, I am.”

  I tried to imagine what that would be like. Emily and me living the south-of-the-border fugitive life. Would it be all Coronas and avocados? Or would it be more like Montezuma’s revenge? And, from this point on, would I always frame my questions-to-self in the style of a Carrie Bradshaw column?

  Emily pulled her hair back into a ponytail, which she tied in place using only the hair itself.

  “There’s about four hundred fifty K on the site right now.” She watched my reaction closely. “We can take it and run. It’s enough to start a new life, and then we can, like, open a fruit stand or sell handmade bracelets or something.”

  “You’re serious,” I said.

  “Sí,” Emily answered. “Mucho.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m so pale, and I’ve never been good at crafts. I need to think.”

  “Well think fast, Fontana. Because we’re just about out of time.”

  I shut myself into my bedroom to do just that: think. If thinking mostly consisted of crying out to the ceiling rain bubble, “How did this happen? What am I supposed to do now?!” I’d never been great when it came to tragedy or decision-making, and this was both. This was like having your dog hit by a car and having to choose a paint color for your vestibule at the same time. I tried going over my options. Run away? Stay and confess? Take a Xanax and a long nap and hope for the best?

  Later that night, I met Kevin at Diner in South Williamsburg because I refused to leave Brooklyn and he insisted on taking me out to dinner so we could “talk.” My true intention was to do as little talking as possible. Really I was only buying time till I figured out what to do next, and I figured I might as well have a decent meal in the interim.

  Diner is in no way a diner. I want that to be clear. Like all things Williamsburg, it’s ironic and expensive and you’re either in on the joke or you’re not. After a forty-minute wait, we were finally seated.

  “I still don’t understand,” Kevin said, squeezing into our tight booth.

  “Neither do I. Why is this stupid place so crowded?”

  “I was talking about Barlow firing you.”

  “Oh.” I made a quick scan of the knitted hats and scruffy beards on either side of us to be sure no one was hiding a tape recorder. Then I remembered tape recorders were rendered obsolete in 1991, and with a minimum of two iPhones on each tabletop, my caution was pointless.

  “Has anyone ever understood why Robert Barlow does the things he does?” I said.

  “I thought you did,” Kevin said.

  Suddenly, our waiter squeezed into our booth beside me, to tell us about the menu. There aren’t any menus at Diner because their food options are seasonal. If you insist on seeing a menu, or pretend to be deaf, they’ll belligerently scribble down the names of a few food items onto your paper tablecloth. This is intended to be authentic. Authentic what, I don’t know.

  We had a short chat with our abundantly tattooed waiter about how organic and grass-fed everything was, and then he asked us what we wanted and I realized I hadn’t been listening to him at all. I’d completely zoned out on our verbal menu options.

  Kevin ordered some kind of fish. He actually just said, “I’ll have the fish,” which signaled to me that he’d also zoned out and taken a shot in the dark.

  “Soup?” I said.

  “Soup’s out of season,” the waiter replied.

  “Burger,” I said.

  “And some beer,” Kevin added. “Whatever you recommend.”

  This date was swiftly turning into the blooper reel of a Food Network reality show. Our craft beers arrived, and I immediately knocked mine over. Another thing about Diner is the tables aren’t level. Diner’s too artisanal for unslanted surfaces.

  Our waiter dutifully brought me a new beer and I sipped it carefully with both hands.

  “Do you think Robert fired you because of your website? Because he disagrees with it politically?” Kevin rubbed at the condensation on his glass. “You might have legal standing, if you think that’s the reason.”

  I gazed around the restaurant’s interior, which resembled the inside of a zeppelin airship. “I spy three separate girls wearing tights for pants,” I said. “Can you find them?”

  This effectively made it impossible for Kevin to rest his puppy eyes on mine. I couldn’t deal with puppy anything right now. My intestines ached and I felt like crying. All I really wanted was to go home and be by myself.

  But Kevin persisted. “Tina, I can’t help you if you don’t let me into what you’re feeling right now.”

  Jesus.

  “I don’t know what I’m feeling,” I said as honestly as I could. “Robert didn’t fire me exactly. It’s more like he gave me a nudge out of the nest.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” Kevin said. “Was it your decision to leave?”

  “Ultimately, yes,” I lied. “I got a generous severance package, and now I can focus all my attention on the site.”

  “But the way you were escorted out, he made it look like you were some sort of criminal—”

  I nearly spilled my second beer at the word. “That’s what they do when people who are close to Robert leave the company,” I said, which sounded plausible even to me. “It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if a crowd hadn’t formed to see me out.”

  “So you quit.” Kevin’s puppy brows were crinkled in that way that suggested he didn’t fully believe me. “But everyone’s saying you were fired.”

  “I didn’t want to be an assistant anymore,” I said. “
Is that so hard for you to understand?”

  Kevin drew back like I’d spit in his face. I hadn’t spit, I don’t think. I was pretty sure it was his sensitivity that made him draw back like that. It was a constant struggle for me to keep my Bronx in check and not steamroll over Kevin’s gentleness at any given moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. The truth is, I’m feeling a lot of different things right now. This is a big change for me, and I’m not great with change.”

  I impressed even myself with this one.

  Our food came, finally, and Kevin, recalibrated to his former balance, held a perfect forkful of his entrée up to my mouth. “Do you want to try this? I think it might be trout. Possibly in truffle oil?”

  “I hate truffle oil,” I said.

  “Yeah, fuck truffle oil.” He threw his fork down onto his plate, smiling wide.

  He was trying so hard to be a good sport.

  But I was barely keeping it together.

  There were suddenly so many variables, everything that felt like a given only yesterday now had to be called into question. Even my relationship with Kevin. If Robert had caught on to anything, or if my being fired wasn’t the end of this, or if I was going to Thelma and Louise it with Emily before the week was through, I should maybe, like, give Kevin a clue that things weren’t kosher. That everything wasn’t coming up roses. Or whatever other idiomatic cliché existed as shorthand for saying things had in fact become totally fucked. What would such a clue be? I didn’t know, but blatant avoidance of meaningful conversation and random tantrum throwing appeared to be my current course of action till I came up with something better.